


Parallel Railways

by Smilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2007, Gen, Pre-Series, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wonder why you've kept me when you've taken a train to another station.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallel Railways

Between you and me  
there are many lines running,  
parallel railways.

I wonder why you've kept me  
when you've taken a train  
to another station.

[Different Stations - Fumiko Tachibana]

 

Cold. Bitter wind cutting through the layers of his heavy jacket, flannel shirt and undershirt. Fingers gone arthritic, hand contracting around the gun's handle. He needs to pass it to his left before his aim gets shot to hell because of stiff fingers.

Dad is a blur ahead, visible only when he moves, a shadow crouching low to minimize exposure, moving with the same smoothness of oil, sliding from tree to tree: Dean is distracted for a moment trying to see how he does it, the grace of his walk, how he avoids bare roots and bushes and looking like he's taking a stroll in the park.

Dad's clothes are dark against the purity of the snow. An absolute white that hurts the eyes, terrain painful to look at for long.

The snow makes a soft muted sound when it falls on the ground from the lower branches; it is loud in the early morning silence, marks their passage with a tiny trail of small mounds.

Sammy's walking a parallel path on Dean's left, both of them taking the rear. He seems as cold as Dean's feeling. Shivering and looking straight ahead, stubborn, always stubborn, he didn't want to come, said something about having to study or some similar shit that's probably as useless. It's just a legend, he'd said, nobody's dying and I have _tests_.

But Dad had been adamant, it's now or never, before the lake starts to melt, he'd said. You come. End of the argument. Sharp words that cut Sam's fragile skin, because it always comes to that with Sam and Dad nowadays. Sam's considerable will crashing against Dad's inflexibility.

Dean had groaned out loud in the echoes of two doors banging hard on their hinges. Too tired to run interferences, his mind still trapped on the letter sliding down from one of Sam's backpack. The envelope worn down, a bit frayed and it thin like it'd been read ten thousand times. Touched and stroked with reverence and love like a woman skin. The words in the letter inside were what mattered, though. Dean couldn't take his eyes off them, disappointment battling with pride. Stanford and full scholarship, and what wasn't written in ink was shouted in other ways, definitive. Sam going away. Wanting it so badly, he'd lied and run the perfect scam on Dad and Dean both.

Dad had woken them up before dawn, in the darkest hour of the night. Early spring in Montana as cold as deep winter, even more so in the Rockies, still covered with snow and ice high up, with the wind coming down the slopes so cold Dean swore he could feel his skin becoming brittle under it.

And Sam had sulked. Replied to Dad's questions with short words, shorter because he mumbled them. Drove Dad mad knowingly and purposefully and Dean was left to wonder when the fuck Sam's brain would catch up with his height.

The ride up into the mountains had been hell, all of them crammed in Dad's truck. Dad had made them both go over the ritual to purify the lake, and Sam had used a toneless voice, repeated the words like an automaton. Challenging Dad to lose it and almost succeeding, though Dean had seen how Dad had tried to stay cool.

They'd left the truck at the end of the Bear Creek road, the forest dark and tall in front of them, the name of the road a reminder that it hid dangers as deadly as the Unktehi they were going to seal inside the lake. Dangers that were more real and immediate than an old legend that could be true or maybe not, even though Dean had dared say nothing to Dad.

He'd not let go of his gun since leaving the car, forefinger resting lightly on the trigger.

They'd taken the Swiftcurrent Pass Trail, not the shorter route to the lake but the one that allowed them to go inside the Glacier National without being spotted by the Rangers. It made a large circle around the Station, saved them a lot of awkward questions, too.

It's a two hours hike and, by the time the lake appears in a clearing, day's already bright, first rays of sun cutting through the trees in oranges and yellows.

The forest gets thin, gives way to the bank of water nestled low inside a shallow valley. It's a minor lake, small. Name that's only known to the locals and the Rangers. It's iced over, white and smooth. Still solid, but showing signs of melting on its surface. Dad had said the ice would be completely gone in a month or so. Had been iced over for hundred of years, but the Rangers were expecting it to melt come summer, something having to do with global warming. Dad had showed him the specs, a graphic with months on the coordinates and degrees on the ordinates that were as perplexing to Dean as Sam's apparent lack of interest in women.

They'd caught Sam's interest, though. Dean swore he'd seen Sam salivate over them. Afterward, he'd launched in a rant about the shortcomings of modern society, some of that girlish stuff he'd say now and then with a prissy voice and a self-righteous tone.

The legend said that the Unktehi had been hidden below for thousand years. Chased by the fire of thunderbirds, the Wakinyan, from the Badlands, took refuge in the mountain up north. An old Lakota tale, but Dad didn't want to take any chances. The ritual had been easy to acquire, a phone call to Pastor Jim who'd gotten the prayer and the name of the herbs they'd need from a Lakota shaman -- in the spirit of inter-religious cooperation, Dean assumed – and passed them along to Dad.

An easy job, Dad as happy to use offensive strategies as what he'd call preventives measures. An easy job in the woods, which Dean should hate, but he doesn't, because they're far from any town and any school, from the allure of the normal and safe Sam's always talking about. A family taking a walk in the woods, just the three of them: doing some outdoor sightseeing on the sides of a working trip, even loaded up with shotguns and salt and smelly herbs as they are, but that's beside the point.

Doesn't matter that he'd always hated camping. Walks in the woods are what he disliked the most, not knowing what lay beneath the bushes, nature unpredictable and mysterious in ways that make the skin between his shoulder blades itch with an impending sense of danger. Beautiful, though, that Dean can appreciate.

He can see the same appreciation in Sam face, eyes wide, his expression thawing progressively. Amazement taking the place of the previous scowl, Sam moves his gaze from the trees to the lake; takes in the boulders that litter its rim like battlements on a medieval wall. Sam can't stay mad for long in the face of that and he grins at Dean like he's not spent the last two hours ignoring him. Like he's not going away in less than two months.

They come to a stop behind Dad, Dean on his right and Sam on his left, positions assumed naturally and waiting for orders, like the ready little soldiers Sam hates they are.

Be careful, Dad says. Takes off toward the north side of the lake without adding a word, trusting them to know what to do and it well. Dean goes in the opposite direction, towards the south corner where the lake curves in a bend, trees growing closer to the rim, exposed roots and branches bending low so they almost touch the ice. A short walk for him, flat terrain, while Dad has to scale the rocks and climbs down to water level.

Sam stays where he is.

Dean walks slowly to his position, gives time to Dad time to reach his own, it doesn't take him long before he gives the go, his shouted _now"!_ traveling easily in the rarefied air.

Dean looks at Sam taking his first steps on the ice, tentative but measured, like Dad told them to do, testing the compactness of it under his boots. They're supposed to walk no more than six feet onto the lake, dig a little hole, bury the satchel with the herbs and cover it with ice again so no critter or wild animal would take them.

The holy herbs stink even inside the leather pouch, the general idea is that the herbs will fall in the water when the lake melts. That and the prayer, good enough to seal the Unktehi underwater. The hope is that it works so they don't have to come back. Funny if it comes to that, Sam will already be gone and Dean won't have the satisfaction of telling him Dad was right after all.

He shouts _Hoka Hey!_ before stepping onto the ice. His only defense is that those are the only Lakota words he knows the meaning of beside the prayer. He likes how his voice comes back at him from every direction, fading to an indistinct sound with each pass. He likes it even more when Sam shakes his head: he may not know what goes on in Sam's head anymore, but Dean can aggravate him alright, any hour of the day. Lather, rinse and repeat.

He has to relinquish the gun, then uses the knife to dig a small hole; puts the little ice shards on the left in a mound. He knows how to dig and bury: done it all his fucking life. What he's doing now is just a variation of their usual salt and burn, ice instead of soil and of course no fire.

The surface of the lake is less flat that it looked from the edge, the ice dirty and giving way easily under the pressure of the knife.

He's almost done when it happens. He feels a quivering running under the ice before he hears it; a loud crack and then his left boot, his ankle, is underwater. Shit, shit! And maybe he's shouted but, fuck, if that isn't _cold_. The fabric of his jeans soaks immediately, water trickles shockingly cold into his boots.

He scrambles back, hands sliding on ice, laying flat on it to distribute his weight over a large surface. The ice gives away under his legs, breaks multiplying in a convoluted net and he is right in the middle of it.

There's a sensation, like falling, when the ice gives under him, the water a cold embrace that steals his breath. For a moment he's too surprised by the abrupt absence of sound inside under the water. Absolute quiet. Beautiful and calm.

The cold shakes him out of it. He flails his arms and legs trying to go back up while his boots fill up with water and weight like lead. He wonders if that's how it'd feel to be tossed in the ocean with boots made of cement.

He loses that train of thought, exhales, air forming bubbles above him, soaring slowly toward the surface. The hole he's fallen into is bright-looking and spills light below -- blues and greens, pretty – and it looks impossibly far no matter how much he's kicking.

There's nothing he can grasp onto, only then there is, a hand curling in a vice-like grip around his wrist, he's out of the water in a moment, first breath of air freezing his insides all the way to the pit of his stomach.

Dad's there, and so is Sam. Voices mixing together, shouting at him, to him. To each other. He feels like he's still underwater, half-deaf, can't stop looking at the sky, the deep blue of it. They're dragging him by his arms, he tries to help, knows he's just flailing without coordination. Stops when Dad tells him to.

He must look like a fish, feels like a fish. Legs and arms moving like a crazy marionette, bones rattling against each other, so much he's shivering so much. Shivering is good though. Lesson imprinted in his mind in Sam's voice. He's all right as long as he shivers.

He feels hands on his jacket -- Dad's – touch identifiable even as addled as he is. Dad's movements always more purposeful than Sam's, who's often tentative, hands too large, like the gigantic freak he is, but his touch inexplicably soft and kind. Dad's touch is rougher, more efficient, taking his jacket off. It's weird, it's fucking crazy: he's already freezing over, cold like he's never felt before, like someone puts shards of ice in his blood. He tries to stop Dad when he unbuckles his belt, a man has a right not to be undressed by his father, has the right to keep his pants on when he's freezing to death.

Dad bats his hand away, doesn't take a lot to do it, Dean can't coordinate, brain disconnected and working in jumps and starts. He feels heavy-limbed and wasted like after a night of heavy drinking. Not even the joy of getting there, though. Sam's helping from behind, he feels the change in altitude when Sam raises his chest, cold wind on his naked back when Sam undresses him.

He feels like laughing, because damned if dying because of a dip in the lake isn't the worst cliché ever. Bad karma, and he's called it on himself with his big mouth. Hey! Get a fucking sense of humor, you freak! Maybe it was the Unktehi's fault. Where are the thunderbirds when you need them? Wouldn't mind them coming now. Breathing fire on his skin, yes fire would be good, and coffee. Hot, dark coffee, tastes better when it's Sam who brings it in the morning, he'd sip it under the blankets, still drowsy and only half-awake until Sam shouts, it's late, you lazy ass.

A nap. He'll settle for a nap. Dean closes his eyes and gets slapped on the face.

It stings. The light burns his corneas when he opens them, looks up and sees Sam is upside down, doesn't he know he's not supposed to stay like that? As if his brain needs more blood than what it gets. He's funny though, face all scrunched over, deep creases on his forehead and hair falling on it. Get an haircut for chrissake!

Dad slaps him again, lighter this time, never liking to be ignored, takes his face in his hand, thumb stroking his jaw, Dad's warm, so warm. His eyes bore into Dean's: a look that commands attention and Dean's powerless when it comes to it. The tone of his voice, something about staying awake, you hear me?

Stay awake. Sure, yessir! Dreams of sleeping going out of the window, only there isn't one around. He hates camping. But they weren't supposed to camp, right? They weren't. Sam has _tests_. Sam is going to _Stanford. _

He? He has a hot date with Tania long-legs.

Long legs and a grip like a boa, takes him inside so deeply he wants to stay there forever. Hot skin like a furnace. He needs to get warmed up again, though. She hates the cold, always bitching about his cold feet. She hates fucking Montana, too. Wants to go to California, be a model, an actress. She's too smart for that, he'd told her. She'd flipped him over on his back and sucked him within an inch of his life. Not ready to listen, yet, not ready. Everybody wanting to leave. I'm not Papa's little girl anymore, she'd said and Dean wondered if Papa's little girl would have given him a blow-job. He's lucky like that.

California's where Stanford is. Maybe Tania and Sam can catch the bus together. Or he'll drive them there himself, with the Impala, get her wild on the highways. A long trip, lots of fucking on the road. Let's see how many disgusted faces Sam can make. He could take it easy, for once, enjoy the vista instead of looking at it pass in a blur beyond the windshield, between one hunt and the next. He'll need to run the idea past Dad first.

No. No. No. He has to talk Sam out of leaving, that's what he needs to do. Make him see how wrong the idea is. Irrational.

He's maybe said it out loud, because Sam makes shushing noise and his breath is warm on the nape of his neck. Hard telling if he's spoken aloud, his tongue feels so numb, thoughts so jumbled up they are going away before he can rein them in, hold them inside.

Dad puts a blanket around him, military stuff, made for endurance, rough against bare skin, even more so when four hands start rubbing him with it like a baby after his bath. Fuck! That. _Hurts_. The friction makes his muscle awaken with millions prickles of pain. He had been going nicely numb, had been pretty okay with it too, had stopped shivering and for the life of him he can't remember if that's good or not.

He swears, waits for Dad to chastise him, but the reproach never comes and that's wrong. Wrong-wrong-wrong. They're putting clothes on him, dry clothes, their hands painful now that every muscle in his body is awake and protesting.

It's Dad who picks him up. Cradles him in his scent like when he was four.

There's a long way down to the Ranger Station.

There's Dad's heart beating strong and fast with exertion beside his ear.

Sam's voice, a litany he can't discern somewhere above him.

Sky's blue now, no clouds in sight.

Dean feels lethargy creeping up on him. Dad and Sam's voices fading in the distance like puffs of smoke. A nap feels good.

***

The smell alone tells him where he is. Hospitals always the same: the sickly sweet tang of sickness that clings to the sheets, the floors, the walls. No doses of Lysol can mask it. Band of steel around his chest that makes breathing hard.

There's a whiff of stale coffee smell too. Dean sees Sam. So close, like he's going to climb on the bed, his face pale, in the grey light. Sam looks at him with something crazy around his eyes, a bit muted, like a distant memory when he says _I though you'd die._

_I'm not going anywhere,_ Dean says, although it comes out wet and scratchy, so damn low Dean knows Sam's heard only because he nods. Smiles.

Funny how things work, he thinks. Dean can see Sam, moving at a different speed, makes it impossible catching up. And Dean's late: the party's over. What's left behind are only leftovers, memories of happiness. The voices, fading in the walls, say words Dean can hardly think of.

He watches as Sam settles himself in the chair, book balanced on his legs and looking tiny.

I'm not going anywhere, Sam.

But you. You are.

\--


End file.
